Sleep Now, Sweet Child of Mine
by whitetiger91
Summary: Everyone thought this he was oblivious to what happened around him; that his mind, just like his body, no longer functioned. The truth is, they were the oblivious ones.


_**A/N: This story was written as a potential bonus entry for The Houses Competition, Year 2, Round 4. Whether or not my team decides to go with this, I do encourage you to also check out our other possible entry (which is amazing!) by Tsu (Kurotsuba). It will be posted in the Gryffindor common room on The Houses Competition forum (and whilst you are there, why not sign up as a pre-Hogwarts student? ;)). This is dedicated to my Head of House, CK (Theoretical-Optimist). I hope I did your head-canon justice, and I know you are chomping at the bit to see what Tsu and I each came up with, so I hope the wait was worth it and you like this :D**_

 _ **House: Gryffindor**_

 _ **Year: 3**_

 _ **Category: Bonus**_

 _ **Headcanon:** **Gryffindor:** **The patients in the Janus Thickey ward (like the Longbottoms) are trapped in their own minds with no ability to express that they understand what is going on around them. You hear stories about people who are in a persistent vegetative state remembering things that happened, so why not victims of Cruciatus torture?**_

 _ **Prompt: 5.** **[Word] Oblivious**_

 _ **Word count: 2986 words (according to Google docs and wordcounterdotnet)**_

 _ **Warnings: This story explores the topic of euthanasia. I haven't gone into any religious arguments in this, and I am aware that there are many, many factors to this that simply cannot be explored within just one story. This does not necessarily express my own opinions, either, and is simply to show some of what people go through when these decisions are made; any opinions that are expressed are done so with the greatest respect for anyone and everyone who is affected by such notions. I have been inspired by the recent decision of my own federal government (Australia) to legalise euthanasia.**_

 _ **I also understand that you may be wondering why Neville and Augusta's roles/ opinions are reversed (especially since Neville is the one to have always taken his mother's gum wrappers in canon), but I hope you can see why. I feel that Neville would be more inclined to do the right thing rather than necessarily give up.**_

 _ **This story is set after the Battle of Hogwarts, sometime around 2001–2005. Since we don't know the fate of Alice and Frank, let alone if they really were out of it, I am leaving it up to you whether you feel it is AU or could be a plausible explanation as to what happens. The cover image is an attempt at drawing the one from Pottermore—I do not own the design!**_

 _ **Thanks to Shiba (Shibalyfe) and Shay (ipsa dixit) for beta'ing! And thank you, everyone, for taking the time to read this regardless of whether or not it gets entered :D**_

* * *

 **Sleep Now, Sweet Child of Mine**

"Did you hear the news? I can't believe it."

Staring up at the white ceiling—as he did most days—Frank tuned out the frenzied whispers echoing around the room. As soon as he realised they did not belong to anyone visiting him, he focused instead on counting the cracks in the paint.

As usual, fire coursed through his veins, reminiscent of the red-coloured curse that had cemented his fate. He squeezed his eyes shut as it made his breathing tighter and his muscles contract. He imagined the curse sweeping through his system, poisoning his veins.

"I don't get it; why is everyone suddenly so against youth in Asia? What did they do wrong?"

Frank opened his eyes, the same, stark white ceiling meeting his gaze. His attention was no longer focused on the cracks, however, as he tried to pick up on the conversation.

" _Euthanasia_ , not youth in Asia. Merlin, Jack, one would think you never picked up a medical journal in your life," a female voice said.

"Whatever. What's the big deal about it? Does it mean more work for us or something?"

"It's finally been legalised. And yes, we may have to do more work, but in the long run—"

The voice suddenly went quiet, and Frank strained to hear if the pair were still there. The female had simply lowered her voice to a whisper, however, and he soon realised why.

"—well, just look at this lot. If we euthanised half the patients in this ward, then maybe we'd have more beds for the other departments. Merlin knows we need more beds."

There was a brief silence again. Frank didn't need to turn his head—not that he really could, anyway—to know that they were probably staring at him. After all, what was he to them but a mere pain to be fed and washed every day? It wasn't as though she didn't have a point, either. He was taking up a bed that could have served a better purpose elsewhere in St Mungo's.

Her male colleague seemed to agree. "Fair point. Why are you whispering, though? It's not like any of them can understand what we're saying. They're oblivious to the world."

If he could move, Frank would have sat up at that moment and corrected the man. He would tell him that he knew everything, heard everything. Then again, if he could move, he would not have still been there.

"You know what Healer Strout is like; be clean, seen and barely heard."

"Well, whatever, she's not here. Anyway, how are we supposed to off the patients? I can't see the Ministry suddenly allowing us to use the killing curse. Kingsley may not—"

Another wave of fire cascaded through his body, causing his breath to hitch. He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to both quell the pain and still listen to what the Healers were talking about. He didn't care if he had to face the killing curse or some other method of death; he'd take anything if it meant the pain would go away and he could restore his dignity.

He strained to hear what else they had to say, but they were once again cut out—this time, by a different sort of pain.

"That's quite enough of that talk, thank you. Our patients need rest, not more fear driven into their hearts," Healer Strout's sharp voice said.

As her footsteps clacked against the linoleum floor, Frank considered keeping his eyes closed and pretending to sleep.

"Good morning, Frank! How are you today?" she asked.

She didn't really expect him to answer; that much was clear from the many other mornings she had come in, a monologue already prepared. A tap of something solid against the frame of the bed rang in his ears, and when he opened his eyes, his view changed from the bleak ceiling to the equally bleak wall opposite him as he was propped up.

"Alright, here comes your favourite: porridge!"

Perhaps it was the way he could never wrinkle his nose or the fact that the mush was easier to force down his throat easier than toast, that the woman had gotten the idea that porridge was his favourite. He could no longer taste food, let alone decipher what made him gag less.

"Open wide!"

The woman came into view, a spoon full of the sloppy mixture in her hand. With her other hand, she pushed down his jaw and shoved the spoon in.

Frank closed his eyes as she helped him swallow the porridge, her hand tilting his head back. He tried not to think about how degrading it was having her open his mouth and forcing the food in. Of how she spoke in a baby voice, cooing at him as though he were only six months old. Of how, when he felt the mush dribbling down his chin, she wiped it away with the bib she had tied around his neck.

Since he didn't have much choice, however, all he could do was pray that the other Healers were right about euthanasia being legalised.

* * *

"Did you hear who the first one to go was?"

"Yeah, I can't believe she didn't tell me she was fired."

Frank sighed. He had been hoping to catch another snippet of news about the euthanasia clearance, but the staff seemed to have moved on. Any hope he did have of learning more was from _The Daily Prophet,_ but Healer Strout always seemed to skip to the finance section.

As it were, she was due to come in any moment with her bath kit, complete with soap, shampoo, clothes and a towel—yet another reminder of something that he couldn't do for himself. He stared up at the ceiling as he waited, sifting through the voices.

"Absolutely not! I forbid it."

"Please, Gran, this isn't a decision I'm taking lightly."

"No, it isn't a decision that you will be making at all."

Frank's ears perked up at the sound of two particular voices: the first belonging to a female, and the second to a male. He'd know the sound of the cane accompanying them anywhere, and he listened as it came closer.

"I have been assured it will be painless—"

"Shh, he's right there," his mother said.

Frank heard the male sigh, and soon his son's face was above his. He could feel a weight on top of his hand—most likely, it was Neville holding it.

"I'm sorry, Dad, I didn't mean to… I still want…" His son sighed and wiped his eyes, before disappearing from view. "Look, I don't want to say goodbye either, but we have to face it: there's been no improvement in over twenty years. He's just not here anymore."

The weight on his hand also disappeared, and after a moment's silence, he heard footsteps head towards the end of his bed.

"Gran…"

"No! What right do you have to make this decision for him? I've already lost my daughter-in-law; I refuse to lose him, too. You wouldn't even know if he was still in there, let alone what _he_ wants."

If there was any time that Frank wanted his voice back, it was then. He didn't want to say goodbye to his family, but neither did he want to put up with this anymore. Neville was right; this wasn't a life for him. He wanted to scream, to shout, to tell them that he did want it—at least, he wanted what he thought they were talking about.

More silence filled the room, disrupted only by the sounds of sniffling beside him, and the occasional moan from one of the other patients. He had learned long ago to block out those sounds, but now, as the prospect of escaping it all was within reach, he allowed them to filter through.

The sniffling grew louder, and soon, he heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Well, you may have given up on him, but I haven't. Look at him; he's peaceful, happy—"

"He's a vegetable," Neville cut in.

"—and the Healers have assured me he isn't in pain. How could you do this to your own father? He's still _alive_." His mother's voice was cracking, her sniffles turning into sobs.

Frank willed his hands to reach for her. He wanted to find her hand, grasp it, and tell her it was all going to be okay.

"Gran—"

"No! I will not allow this!"

Frank closed his eyes as he heard his mother storm off, her cane tapping against the floor again. More silence filled the room, and soon, he felt the side of the bed sink down.

The weight was back on his hand once more, and he reopened his eyes. He could see in his peripheral that it was his son, the man's hazel eyes shining with fresh tears.

"I'm trying to be practical," he whispered. He wasn't looking at Frank, his eyes gazing ahead. "There is no cure. What would you do?"

He wished that Neville would look at him. He blinked, rapidly, hoping that it would get his attention. His son continued to stare ahead, however, and Frank stopped. Even if Neville did turn his way, he wouldn't know that his blinks were him trying to tell him that he agreed. Like always, they'd probably be interpreted as nothing more than a nervous flutter.

"I want you to have true peace, Dad," he said, finally turning his way.

Frank's view of the ceiling was soon cut out as Neville stood and leant over him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He then felt the man's hand moving across his mouth, perhaps wiping away some dribble.

"I want to do this for you."

With that, the vision of his son disappeared, and soon, his footsteps joined the fray of hospital noises.

* * *

"Ok, Mr Longbottom, I need to be sure that you're aware of the full consequences. Now, we will be using a 35ml lethal dose of the Draught of Living Death, as per your father's weight…"

When Frank had opened his eyes that morning, it was to stare at a bleak white ceiling. It wasn't his ceiling, however; the cracks were different, the paint fresher. As soon as the Healer had come in, his son in tow, he understood that he had been moved to a smaller private room.

His heart now raced in his chest, overcoming the pain still coursing through his body. This was it; he was finally going to escape the nightmare that had become his life.

"I understand, and I agree," Neville said.

"It is a difficult decision, I know, but I do assure you, this is the right thing to do," the Healer said.

Frank wasn't sure if it was Healer Thomas or Healer Higgins. All he did know was that it was not Healer Strout, who had continued to admonish any visitors or staff when the topic of euthanasia had come up.

"Alright, I just need you to sign here, then down here," he said.

"Ok, Dad, time for us to both be brave," he heard Neville say, and soon the scratching of quill on parchment could be heard.

"Excellent. I'll send the forms off before preparations are made, and you will receive a copy of everything once the Ministry overlooks your father's case. Based on their original assessment, they seem to agree that your father's consent will not factor into this due to his condition. Given that he is deteriorating, I can't see that there will be any problems.

"The only thing we need now is your grandmother's signature."

"And you certainly won't be getting that," another voice said as the door burst open.

Neville groaned. "Gran, please don't do this."

Frank had to agree with his son; he had been hoping that his mother would not show up, or, better yet, that she would agree to the procedure.

"Mrs Longbottom, you have to understand…"

"No, I understand alright. You are taking away the life of my only son without his consent. How do you know he isn't happy? How do you know he doesn't want to keep fighting, to wait for the cure I know will come?" his mother said, accompanied by the sound of rustling parchment.

"It seems you have done a lot of research, Mrs Longbottom, but I must point out that none of it fits your son's condition. They are more for things like memory charms gone wrong and are experimental at best. Your son's mind was severely affected by the Cruciatus Curse, not just his nervous system. We've seen no sign that he is conscious of anything around him. I'm sorry, but he is just a shell of a human now."

"Nonsense! I know he wants to stay; I know he wants to fight."

Frank had to make his mother understand, he just had to. His body was constantly on fire now, each little touch of the Healers feeling like white hot knives were stabbing into him. He had heard the Healers mention other developments, such as clots and kidney stones, and although he couldn't feel them above his other pain, he dreaded the operations that would be needed to fix them.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated as hard as he could on his hands and feet. If he could just move, even a little bit, he could somehow tell her he wanted this. His chest tightened as he focused on making something—anything—move. It wasn't long before, amidst the burning, he felt a tingle in his fingertips.

"We must do this. _For_ him. Look, he's spasming; how could you let him go through that?"

With an inward sigh, Frank stopped concentrating. He had gotten their attention, yes, but once again, they were oblivious to what was really happening. Still, hope rose in his chest that his mother would see that his life wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Sobs filled the room. It broke his heart to hear his mother in tears, but at least she finally understood.

"Please, this is for the best," Neville said.

More sniffles filled the air, followed by the sound of someone blowing their nose.

"N-no… no. I will not allow it. No mother should ever have to lose their son," his mother said.

Groans filled the room again, and if he could, Frank would have joined them.

"It seems we have no choice but to delay this," the Healer said. "Mrs Longbottom, I hope you do reconsider everything."

* * *

"Come on… open wide... That's a boy, isn't that delicious?" his mother cooed.

Frank felt the slop slide down his throat. His hazel eyes stared into her brown eyes, hoping that she would see his pain.

She wiped the edge of his mouth with his bib and took away the plastic spoon. "Now, do you need to use the bathroom, or should I read you—Oopsy!"

He winced as her voice rose a few octaves and she wiped at his chin again. He could feel the moisture sliding down his chin, no longer sure whether it was the mashed carrots, slobber, or a combination of both. He missed her usual stern voice, the way she used to command him as a child to be independent. Merlin, he even missed Healer Strout, who fussed over him in the same babyish manner but without tears in her eyes.

His mother had replaced the Healer as his regular carer, walking into the room each morning with a smile on her face. He would watch as she bustled about changing his clothes, emptying his bedpan, shaving his face. For an elderly woman, she seemed to carry a strength about her that rivalled even the most seasoned Healer.

He felt his own eyes welling up, wishing her efforts weren't being wasted.

"Shh, we'll have no tears. You're a hero, my son; you have nothing to be ashamed about," she said, wiping his chin again.

The movement sent a wave of fresh pain through his system, and his body started tingling all over. As his muscles were sent into spasms—this time not of his own making—his mother's eyes widened.

"Healer Strout! Someone! Quick, it's happening again," she said.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard hurried footsteps. The witches' voices faded in and out as the spasms erupted, and he only caught snippets of their conversation.

"—hurry up, do something—where'd you get your degree, any—"

"—trying—third time today—"

"—I can't; I'm not ready—"

"—don't agree with laws—it might be best—"

When the pain became slightly duller, he opened his eyes. His mother's face was in front of him, the tears streaming down her wrinkled face. A weight was on his hands again, and he felt his own cheeks growing wet.

"Please give us a moment," she whispered, not taking her eyes off his.

He wasn't sure if the Healer left, nor did he care. The weight pressing against his hands increased, and with a little concentration, he could feel a thumb trailing over his knuckles.

His mother swallowed. "You want this, don't you? You want to go?"

The tears continued to trickle down both their faces. The pain was coming back, the tingles thrumming through his fingertips and toes. He tried to grip her hand, but when that didn't work, he settled for blinking slowly.

"Once for yes," she said, her voice growing hoarser. "T-twice for no."

The pain clutched at his heart, his stomach, his arms, his legs. Focusing on his mother, he blinked as slowly as he could manage. Once.

His mother sucked in her breath, and for the longest moment, he thought she would ask him again.

"Okay," she eventually whispered.

Frank turned his attention to their entwined hands, the spasms beginning to take over his body again.

"I love you," she said.

Beginning to tremble, he focused on squeezing her hand. He wasn't sure if he managed to, but she nodded anyway.

"I know. Sleep now, my child, sleep now."


End file.
